


Oh You Shouldn't Have

by Dogwood



Series: More Than Most [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogwood/pseuds/Dogwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh this is very kind of you, Nevarra, I'll put it with my eighteen other gold plated Andraste statues. Yes, it's perfect. No it matches my eyes, I'm very fond of it. I'll sleep with it on my pillow tonight, that's just how much I love it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh You Shouldn't Have

“ _More_ of them?”

“More of them. There’s another crate comin’ up the trail right now, too.”

Lavellan put a hand to her mouth, ignoring the faint green flicker there as she drank in the sight of the overburdened wagon and the tired draft horses, their sides caked with spattered mud from the journey up the mountain.

“Bring them inside, I’ll have Josephine take a look when she’s available. And see to the horses, please.”

Gifts, tributes, bribes, appeasements - whatever the intention behind them, people from all over Thedas had taken a liking to filling her castle with _things_. Some of them were very lovely things, like the bolts of shimmering silk from Val Royeaux, hand-painted to look like dragon scales, or the silver lantern from Starkhaven that lit the surrounding walls with a map of the celestial bodies, but they were still _things_ and _unnecessary distractions_.

In her clan, superfluous supplies were a drain on resources, slowing down the aravels, irritating the halla and, worst of all, annoying the Keeper. It was best to keep only what you absolutely needed or knew you could trade in the next village. 

These wagons of trinkets were a pebble in her boot, and as she climbed the steps to Skyhold’s main hall, a lounging Iron Bull noted the look on her face and laughed, a low, flat laugh.

“If you need to kill someone, boss…”

“Push it all off the mountain,” she said, stalking past him, and his laugh became genuine, fading in her ears as she entered the hall.

The worst of it was that she couldn’t even give it away or risk insulting the sender - an affront with very real consequences for a fledgling group such as the Inquisition. Had she her way she would’ve donated it all to the nearest alienage, but Leliana’s face at the very notion was enough to still Lavellan’s tongue. 

“Still more?” His bare feet against the stone floor meant Solas was always so quiet as he approached.

“The throne’s all yours - I’m going back to the woods to live a life of sylvan solitude. You’re welcome to my desk if you can get it down the stairs.”

He nodded, but remained as unreadable as ever. “Your advisor was looking for you this morning.”

“I’ve no doubt!” Lavellan pushed her shoulder against the door to her tower, which opened with a low groan. Before her, the stairs stretched into the darkness, winding higher and higher.

“The ambassador said to inform you that a messenger from Clan Ghilain arrived this morning, but she would not stay - the snows on the lower mountain were too heavy for her to linger.”

Lavellan paused, then turned to face him. “ _Ghilain?_ What did she need?”

He had been painting again, that much was clear. There was a cobalt blue smudge across the side of his hand, presumably where he’d leaned against a patch of still wet paint. Water? The night sky? She would have to look at the newest addition before dinner.

“She did not speak to me,” he said, watching her as she lifted his hand and turned it over, searching for more smudges, a paper thin excuse to touch him.

“I’ll be back down shortly,” she said, releasing his hand and sighing. “Actually no, a number of your books arrived yesterday. I brought them upstairs with me so I wouldn’t forget.”

And act which she’d regretted halfway up the tower stairs, when the thick journals began to weigh twice as much as they had at the bottom of the steps.

“And then you forgot?” His eyes lifted at the corners.

“I had jewel encrusted everythings to ignore.”

“I would be happy to retrieve them,” he said, finally smiling.

Up they went, Lavellan lost in thought as they climbed the dusty steps, breathing in the musty tower air. Somewhere above them a raven rustled its flight feathers, sending soft, charcoal down to the floor far below. Solas was content to leave her with her thoughts, saying nothing, climbing the steps easily beside her, taking some two at a time.

A small box was waiting for them at the foot of her bedroom door. They exchanged a brief look, and he lifted his brows, clearly just as puzzled.

The construction of the box was simple enough - Dalish in design, sturdy and meant for travel, but the lid was meticulously carved. Ghilan'nain stood among a pine forest, her slim hands held aloft as she wove a spell in a series of thin lines, flowers blooming at her feet, water coursing under the ground in delicate spirals.

She bent to inspect it. “She must’ve left this with Josephine.”

Solas stepped around her to open the door, holding it aside as Lavellan straightened and carried the box into her room, where she set it upon the made bed. He remained silent.

There was no lock on the box, and when opened it revealed a collection of small gifts. Unlike the snow white show horses or the violet gowns - gifts made to flatter the sender as well as the recipient - these were thoughtful, humble items, pieces that could’ve been created by her own clan.

Her hand went once more to her mouth.

Fine hunter’s arrowheads, small honey cakes wrapped for the trail, two pairs of knitted socks, warm and soft and dyed a moss green, and finally, wrapped within the socks, a carving of a halla, palm sized, its antlers twisting, vine-like, over its back.

“Oh.”

She lifted the small wooden animal, turning it over, marveling at the carved fur at its hooves and the rounded nose, sanded smooth. It still smelled of the protective oil rubbed over the wooden grain.

“We’ll speak at dinner, lethallan.” His voice was low behind her, and she lifted a hand in a distracted wave as she felt him move towards the door.

“Thank you, Solas.”

Behind her, the heavy door closed, the latch settling in place with hardly a click, and Lavellan lowered herself onto the bed, the carving clutched in her hand.


End file.
